


how come this feels so nice?

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dreams and Nightmares, Grace Sex, M/M, Season/Series 15, Senses, Sensuality, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Experiencing the five senses with Dean.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 33
Kudos: 374





	1. Sight

The first time Castiel saw Dean—saw him stripped down to his core, flesh and bone and tainted with sin—Dean was truly beautiful. Despite the blood on his hands and the soot dirtying his ankles, his soul shone bright amid the hellfire, a beacon that Castiel could latch onto. He fought his way through the circles purely following Dean’s light, and touched down in a flutter of wings, feathers scorched and ablaze.

And what shocked him most, was that this man—this sinfully holy man—went with him willingly. Gave up his cleaver and took Castiel’s hand, and Castiel gathered him up and flew him to safety, all while he mended Dean’s soul. He looked so small, helpless, pleading for an end to his suffering. Castiel couldn't stray from his mission, wouldn't—but seeing him at his most broken, broke Castiel in return.

The first seed of doubt started then, Castiel knows.

Blinking up at the ceiling, Castiel shakes off the memory and counts the dots on the ceiling, barely visible in the red glow of the alarm clock. At his side, Dean sleeps with his back turned, snoring with his pillow under his head. Around them, the motel is silent, save for the neighbors shuffling next door and the occasional truck downshifting on the interstate. In the adjoining room, Sam is asleep, and Jack is… somewhere. Maybe resting, or making his way through Dean’s collection of DVDs on the portable player Dean has had for too many years.

Quiet. Dean breathes, slow and steady, and Castiel tries to match him. The memory won’t leave his thoughts, no matter how hard he tries to think of something else. Anything else. Hell was over a decade ago, and some nights, he can still smell the sulfur, can taste the flames on his tongue. In a way, he shares Dean’s trauma, but not to the same extent. Alastair tortured Dean for years, and Dean bears the scars on his soul to prove it. Demons plucked Castiel’s feathers and tore at his Grace, and fought him when he took Dean into his arms, clawing at everything they could reach.

Dean doesn’t remember this part. If he ever asked, Castiel would tell him, but out of every memory he has, Hell is one he longs to forget. Dean’s cries, Dean’s pleas for death, Dean’s hands touching him as his claws melted away into flesh and bone—

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, his name spilling out before he can stop himself.

Slowly, Dean’s breathing quickens, resuming a normal rate. The mattress shifts, and Dean turns, looking over his shoulder. “S’pposed to be asleep.”

“I was.”

Rolling onto his side, Castiel props the other pillow under his head, then closes his eyes. The bed shakes as Dean flips over, yanking the blankets up to cover their shoulders. Clouds were just beginning to roll in when they pulled into the parking lot; indoors, Castiel feels the chill of winter creeping in, bringing with it snow and dread. They won’t be able to leave tomorrow. Though, that might not be such a bad thing.

It takes Dean another moment to settle, his body just as restless as his mind. In the dark, Castiel watches his eyes flutter, his exhaustion bleeding into the space between them. They didn't arrive until ten, and Dean passed out the moment they made it into the room, leaving Castiel to pull off his boots and tuck him into bed. Sometime between then and now, Dean stripped out of his pants and his jacket, leaving him in his sweat-stained Henley and hopefully his underwear. Castiel refuses to entertain that thought, even when Dean’s cold toes touch his own.

“You’re thinking,” Dean mumbles and hugs his pillow closer. “Thinking too loud.”

Castiel rubs his eye. He should sleep, but sleep doesn’t come easily with his Grace in constant turmoil. “I was remembering.”

“Never a good sign.” Snuffling, Dean palms his face. “What’s on your mind?”

Slowly, Castiel sighs. “Nothing you should worry about at three in the morning,” he says, and Dean doesn’t fight him. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

Dean shakes his head—or tries, anyway. “Just my back. Sleep’ll help.”

Sleep, numerous pills and time. Time Dean shouldn't spend hurting. “Here,” Castiel says and drapes an arm around Dean’s torso. Resting his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, Castiel feels him stiffen, body taut as he pours slivers of Grace down Dean’s spine, to where the bruises and the one gouge ripped across his lower back begin to ease. Gradually, Dean melts into his touch, his sigh little more than a breath against Castiel’s lips.

A quiet bliss overcomes Dean’s face, his jaw softened, lips parted. Castiel aches to touch him, to trace the freckles lining his cheeks, to feel the slight bump on his nose. In the daylight, Dean is stunning, from his sun-kissed skin to the scars faded with age. There, he can barely see Dean’s soul—in the dark, he basks in it, allowing his Grace to slip beneath Dean’s skin. A spark ignites when the two meet; Dean’s soul winds around his Grace, and Castiel clings to him, forming a knot for Dean to hold on to.

A shy acknowledgement flits across Dean’s eyes, his cheeks no doubt red and hot to the touch. “Thought you were over the soul fondling.”

Castiel smiles, knowing Dean can’t see him. “I like to look at you,” he says in all sincerity. Deal’s soul shies away, but Castiel urges it closer, soothing the frayed edges. “People admire you for your appearance, but they can’t see you as I do.”

Dean blows out a breath, sounding strangled in his lungs. “Don’t sweet talk me,” he says, sly. “Not that kinda guy.”

 _You are_ , Castiel wants to say. He spreads his fingers over Dean’s nape, and Dean shudders, his eyelids fluttering. “Go back to sleep,” he says. “It’s snowing.”

“Great.” Dean rests a hand between them, wringing the fabric a few times before he settles. “Gonna teach Jack how to make…”

He drops off mid-sentence, breaths once again slowed, this time without a trace of pain. For a while, Castiel watches him sleep and allows himself a brief second of vulnerability. Even unconscious, Dean follows his touch, leaning up as Castiel touches his cheek. His soul reaches out, and Castiel meets it, allowing Dean to hold onto him. “Sleep,” Castiel hushes, closing his eyes. “Sleep…"


	2. Smell

Smells, Castiel never has quite gotten used to. Most pleasant, others repellant. One of his favorites is the backseat of the Impala, all well-worn leather and aging upholstery, and the faint scent of cigarettes whenever Dean can’t handle the stress. The front seat smells no different, but the back, Castiel claims as his own. Not because he regards himself as the third wheel, but because he feels cared for. Invited into such a private space. In her own way, Baby comforts him with the sounds from her radio, the padding in her seats. Her scent, mingled with Dean’s and Sam’s, all working in tandem.

It feels like home, in a way it never has before.

In a pinch, Dean will drive through the night to wherever they plan to go. Sam will sleep in the front seat, and Jack will stare out of the back window, never speaking, only watching what lies in the abysmal distance. Castiel, however, revels in the silence and the hum of the engine, the steady vibration under his thighs. Sometimes, Dean hums along to his own beat, or whispers to Castiel, barely loud enough to be heard over the motor. Castiel hears him all the same, and rumbles out replies whenever necessary.

Tonight, Castiel sits in the front passenger seat. Sam and Jack went to their rooms hours ago, and Dean couldn't sleep. These nights, Dean can’t, though he tries. At the most, he’ll nod off for a few hours, and Castiel will hear him wandering the halls, or feel the onslaught of his thoughts a few doors down. Dean’s mind works constantly, wandering from one thought to the next, all in a vain attempt to stave off the guilt Castiel knows he bears. Has always bore, ever since he can remember.

With Dean behind the wheel, Castiel watches the landscape drift by. Streetlights glisten in the mist dotting the windshield, and streaks of rain spread across the side windows, disappearing out of sight. Only a few miles from the Bunker, and this might as well be another world, where only the two of them exist.

The rain steadily picks up as the minutes go on, transforming from a steady drizzle to a downpour. Rather than turn around, Dean parks on the shoulder and turns his hazards on, just in case someone might be driving around at this hour. Someone like them.

In the dark, all Castiel knows is his senses: the sound of the rain and Dean’s even breaths, the scent of humidity and stale sweat, the soft leather under his fingers. He can barely see anything, not even his hand in front of his face, and not Dean when Castiel inches closer. Dean makes a shocked noise as Castiel palms his thigh, and opens his mouth to argue. Castiel swallows his words before they have the chance to break free, and feels Dean melt incrementally, his muscles softening.

Vulnerability, Castiel knows. Knows Dean doesn’t let his guard down just for anything, but for this, Dean allows it. A hand comes up and rests over Castiel’s nape, then strokes through his hair. Tentative, scared; Castiel palms Dean’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over the wrinkles lining Dean’s eyes.

“You’re thinking,” Castiel murmurs, pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean chases him, lips parted in shock and wet with spit. “Do you ever stop?”

“No,” Dean says. Breathless, he tugs Castiel in, and Castiel goes willingly, climbing into Dean’s lap. Dean backs into the door panel, his breath shaking, nearly as hard as the rest of him. “Cas…”

Castiel shushes him with another kiss, this one to the bridge of his nose. Shuddering, Dean turns his head away. Around them, the rain pings like bullets on the roof, a cacophony of sound that drowns out the rest of the world. All save for Dean’s heartbeat, Dean’s unsteady breaths. “It’s okay,” Castiel says, barely above a whisper. Somehow, Dean hears him. “You’re allowed to want this.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, swallowing. “Yeah, but… do you want it?”

 _Yes_ , Castiel thinks. _Ever since the moment I laid eyes on you_. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it,” he says instead. Cupping Dean’s cheek, he feels Dean lean into him, a soft breath pouring free. Castiel kisses him, his tongue timidly meeting Dean’s. This close, Castiel can smell the sweat clinging behind his ears, can smell the slightest hint of tobacco on his tongue. Just one, today—depending on how their quest to kill God goes, probably more to come. “Do you trust me?”

Dean nods at first, then says, “Yes,” his voice shockingly brittle. “Yeah, of course.”

Another kiss; Dean whimpers, digging his nails into Castiel’s coat sleeve. “I’ll worship you,” Castiel says, peppering kisses to the curve of Dean’s throat. Dean swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing; Castiel kisses it, laving his tongue over the knot. “Your soul is the divine light of the heavens, and I plan to bow to your glory, just to bask in your presence. For you’re holy, flaws and all. You love fierce and true, despite the blood on your hands, the scars left from your sins, and you expect nothing in return. Let me give you this one thing.”

He stops to kiss Dean’s forehead, and feels Dean shudder, down to his core. “Let me love you.”

“Yes,” Dean says—so close to a beg yet not quite. All at once, his soul gives, and Castiel worms his way into Dean’s space, capturing him with both his lips and his Grace. Quiet, Dean moans and clings to him, his body trembling, soul aching for touch—and Castiel refuses to deny him, even for another second.


	3. Touch

Naked, Dean is a marvel of human biology. How out of all of the cells in the universe, they could come together to create this one man, this one being, Castiel has yet to find out. But touching him might be Castiel’s favorite hobby turned profession. Sprawled out on a motel mattress, Castiel takes his time kissing his way across Dean’s body, marveling at the way he pants and how he chases Castiel’s lips. Faintly, he shivers, and his cock dangerously tents his briefs, already leaked through and soaked.

But Castiel refuses to give into temptation. Instead, he presses a knee between Dean’s thighs and leans over, drawing him into a kiss. All at once, Dean surrounds him, hands to his shoulders and legs tangling with his own—and Castiel ends up on his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. They have a lead they should be following up on, but Dean woke up antsy, and Castiel couldn't keep his hands to himself.

An hour later, apparently neither can Dean. Castiel lies there after Dean pulls every piece of his clothing off, from his coat down to his socks. He leaves Castiel’s boxers on, much to Castiel’s relief.

“Dean,” Castiel starts, but Dean shushes him with a finger to his lips.

“This doesn’t go one way,” Dean cuts in. Reaching over the side of the bed, he comes back up with Castiel’s tie; Castiel lifts his head on instinct, and allows Dean to wrap the silk around his eyes, knotting it behind his head. Without sight, all Castiel has to rely on is what Dean gives him. “When’s the last time someone did something nice for you?”

To that, Castiel doesn’t know. He hasn't exactly been afforded small pleasures in his life, his sole focus on what he can do for others, never what someone can do for him in return. “I haven’t kept track,” he says.

Dean hums. The bed dips on either side of his hips, and gentle hands cover his shoulders, warm and calloused and all too familiar. “Just relax,” Dean murmurs into Castiel’s ear. A shiver rips up his spin, aided by Dean’s fingers roaming their way across his body. “Feel that?”

Castiel feels something—Castiel feels everything: the whorls of Dean’s fingertips, the rumbled sheets, heated air and hotter breaths. Shuddering, Castiel nods and fights down the urge to touch Dean in return. But Dean treats him with kindness, returning everything Castiel gave him, and then some. Soft kisses linger across his skin, hot, scalding presses that Dean laves wherever he can. Namely, his chest, slowly moving down to his sternum, then lower. His hands join in, stroking the broad expanse of Castiel’s thighs and down to his knees, to his Achilles.

Dean worships every part of him, and Castiel bites his tongue, terrified of what sound might come out. No one has ever touched him like this before—no one has ever tried, and even if they did, they weren’t nearly as thorough as Dean. Every press, every kiss and tug, all of it sends Castiel’s Grace soaring, catches the air in his lungs. Touching Dean is one thing—being touched by him might as well be ecstasy of the highest order.

“And you call me touch starved,” Dean chides. His warmth disappears, but only for a moment; Castiel follows him anyway, a desperate noise clawing its way free. “Whoa, hold on.” Laughing, Dean presses a kiss to his lips, his tongue playing coy. “Just gotta get up here.”

Here, apparently, is over Castiel’s waist. Deft fingers press into Castiel’s trapezius, thumbs massaging the muscle until Castiel groans. Shivers wind their way down to his toes, and a steady heat builds in his groin. Pleasant, almost—if only Dean would touch him or entertain the thought. “You’re tense,” Dean says. He cups the back of Castiel’s head, rubbing his thumbs behind Castiel’s ears. “You get headaches?”

_I shouldn't_. “All the time,” Castiel admits, sucking in a breath. Tilting his head back, Dean kisses up Castiel’s throat; he moans, fisting the bedspread. “Dean…”

Dean presses into the skin beneath Castiel’s ears, massaging where just minutes before, Castiel sucked a dark purple spot into Dean’s skin. His sighs spur Dean on, leading to the most embarrassing yelp Castiel has ever made when Dean sinks his teeth into his Adam’s apple. Just barely, but his Grace spirals in reply, threatening to burst free.

“Feel it in you,” Dean says with mirth. He abandons his ministrations and strokes through Castiel’s hair. Once, twice, and each time, Castiel whines, desperate for Dean’s adoration. “Feel that power. You’re holding back, angel.”

“Dean,” Castiel warns, but Dean just snickers and sneaks in another kiss.

The blindfold comes free with little more than a tug; with wet eyes, Castiel looks up at Dean, at the flush in his cheeks and the red spreading down his neck, painting his chest. His smile dies the minute Dean notices his tears; warmly, he wipes them away, and Castiel takes his wrist, just for something to hold on to. _Why am I crying_? “You okay?”

_No_ , Castiel wants to say. Worship only goes one way, and that involves Castiel on his knees. Not with Dean in his lap, gathering up Castiel’s tears on his lips. “You love me,” Castiel says, steady as he can manage. “I feel it in your hands.”

Dean doesn’t deny it—Dean doesn’t do much of anything, other than look away, his lip between his teeth. Castiel takes his hands and laces their fingers together; shakingly, Dean holds him just as tight. “Not really good with the whole… expressing myself thing.”

“You do in other ways.” Castiel brings Dean’s knuckles to his lips. “I can see it in your eyes. You just won’t let yourself have what you want.”

“Neither will you.” Leaning down, Dean coaxes him into another kiss, this one far less tame than all the others. “What’s stopping you?”

_The world_ , Castiel thinks. God wants them dead, and one by one, the other universes are dying. Yet, Dean is here, the one constant Castiel has ever had in his incredibly long life, and Castiel intends to keep him. God can try, but he’ll fail. “Come find out,” Castiel says—and Dean does.


	4. Sound

Often, Castiel hears Dean coming before he sees him. Around the bunker, Dean hums and stomps just because he can, no longer having to hide just in case someone might be lurking around the corner. In motels, he’s quieter, his footfalls little more than a whisper. In public, he might as well not exist, fading into the background of every room he enters, every forest he wanders into.

In his sleep, Dean’s nightmares come to life in quiet whimpers. Facing Dean, Castiel watches Dean’s eyelids dance, his lips twisted in the throes of rem. At first, he doesn’t speak, his only vocalizations the low noises that resonate in his chest, clawing their way up his throat. Between them, his hand shakes, and Castiel covers it out of reflex, hoping that a familiar touch will ease his mind.

Nothing helps. Dean turns his head further into the pillow and whines, long and low, so close to a sob that it breaks something in Castiel’s chest. He should wake Dean, or comfort him, but rousing someone from a dead sleep—Dean especially—is ill-advised. A horrifying image of Dean caught mid-sleep paralysis crosses his mind, of Dean seeing him as the creature sitting on his chest, haunting his dreams.

Much as it hurts, Castiel watches it play out. He grips Dean’s hand and listens to his labored breathing. Words eventually pour free, words Castiel hates to hear, even when Dean’s conscious. “Help,” Dean pants, then whines, low. His throat moves, but no noise comes; eyes pinched, Dean fists the bedspread with a trembling hand. “Don’t let…”

Castiel shushes him, brushing his knuckles across Dean’s temple. Shivering, Dean turns away, face half-smothered. “We’re home, Dean,” he whispers. Whether or not Dean hears him is up for debate. “You’re home. Whatever you see, it’s not real.”

“Help,” Dean groans. His lips part, head jerking like someone slapped him. Agony twists his expression; in that moment, all Castiel wants is to wake him, to ease the burden that plagues him, even in his dreams. “Help, hot…”

“Listen to me,” Castiel says. Soft, soothing, all he can muster given the hour. “Follow my voice. Can you hear me?”

A stuttered “Cas” breaks free. Yet, he doesn’t wake; Dean curls into himself, trying his hardest to shrink. “Cas,” he tries again, even more broken. “Cas…”

“Listen.” Releasing Dean’s hand, Castiel covers his bare shoulder, over the barely-there scarring of a mark long since healed. Dean’s eyelids flutter. “Listen, Dean. Come to me.”

Dean shakes his head, his lip between his teeth. “Can’t… Don’t let…”

He shouldn't—he really shouldn't, but no one has ever written the rulebook on how to deal with inescapable dreams in the dead of night. Closing his eyes, Castiel focuses his Grace and lets slivers pour free, traveling to the turmoil roiling Dean’s mind. Rather than pry, he eases the fever burning behind Dean’s eyes, and in increments, the tension bleeds from Dean’s face, until his blinks awake.

Green eyes meet Castiel’s own, muted by the dark of the room. “Dean,” Castiel whispers, feeling Dean shift. “Are you awake?”

“Wish I wasn’t,” Dean rasps. He scrubs his face, wiping the drool from the corner of his lips. “Did I wake you up?”

“You were talking in your sleep,” Castiel says, watching Dean’s brow furrow. “You were dreaming.”

“Don’t remember it,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel half believes him. For all he knows, he could’ve already forgotten; the human mind works in strange ways, Castiel finds. “Heard you, though. Like a megaphone in my head.”

A smile flits across Castiel’s lips. “You called out to me. I couldn't exactly let you think you were alone.”

Dean agrees with a grunt. For a while, Castiel watches him, spending his time petting through Dean’s hair from his temple to his nape; humming, Dean leans into him, his soul rising up to meet wherever Castiel touches. Just as radiant as ever, almost too bright to witness. “Feel weird,” Dean says, eyes narrowed. “Feel like I’m forgetting something.”

Castiel pets behind his ear. Dean sighs, little more than a breath. “Go back to sleep,” he says, drawing his arm around Dean’s middle. Dean wiggles closer, his body curled up into Castiel’s; their toes brush, Castiel’s knee working its way between Dean’s. Like this, Dean is warm and everything he has ever wanted in that one moment. Love incarnate, in his arms for eternity. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Throwing an arm around his waist, Dean agrees with a nod. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says—pleads—and Castiel knows what he means. Knows that despite all his lies, Dean remembers his dreams and carries the weight every second he’s awake. He shouldn't have to; desperately, Castiel wishes he could take Dean’s pain away.

Tugging Dean closer, Castiel presses a kiss to his forehead. “Your secret is mine,” he says. Dean deflates in his arms, the burden lifted, at least for the moment. If only Castiel could have him like this forever, then everything they’ve been through would be worth it, and more.


	5. Taste

Though he’s tried, narrowing down just how Dean tastes is a struggle. Sometimes, he reminds Castiel of abstract thoughts, like sunshine or freshly mown grass, too intoxicated with the feel of his lips to think beyond that. Others, he tastes the lingering spices Dean used for that night’s dinner, or the gum he chews when he needs something to take his anger out on. His least favorite is whiskey, when the stress becomes too much and alcohol is Dean’s only comfort. Those nights, Dean is rough, and Castiel pushes back just as hard; in the morning, Dean curls up next to him and kisses him, mouth stale but love on his tongue.

Movie night used to be platonic, just them sitting in front of the television, Dean jabbing him with his elbow when something exciting happened, their hands brushing every time either of them reached for the popcorn bowl. Used to be—because lately, Sam heads to bed early, and the minute Castiel hears his door shut, Dean crawls into Castiel’s lap with intent in his eyes.

Tonight, propped up against the back of the couch, Castiel holds onto Dean’s hips while Dean straddles him, bodies heated, drawn taut in a tight coil. Dean kisses him with lust, and Castiel tastes the sin on his tongue, loose from a few shots of Dean’s good bourbon. Castiel devours him, chasing the ardor in his kiss, the heat radiating from his hands. Occasionally, Dean breaks away to mark Castiel’s throat, leaving behind mottled bruises that Castiel refuses to heal, not until later in the night.

Castiel thought he knew ecstasy in Dean’s touch, but his lips bring a new level of euphoria. Steadily, arousal builds in his gut, but he tamps it down, despite the steady rock of Dean’s hips against his own. His hands travel, at first running up the broad expanse of Dean’s back, but soon underneath, where Dean’s skin burns hot and his muscles ripple.

Against his better judgment, Castiel breaks away and presses his finger to Dean’s spit-slick lips, fighting the urge to slip one inside. “Lie back.”

At first, Dean blinks—then scrambles, almost falling off the couch in his haste. By the time he settles, Castiel worms his way between Dean’s legs and runs his palms up the loose fabric of his sweats, urging Dean’s thighs open. Part of him suspects Dean doesn’t have much experience on the receiving end, most of his efforts oriented towards pleasing his partner. Tonight, though, Castiel has an itch that only Dean can scratch.

Working Dean’s cock free takes little effort, to Castiel’s surprise. Dean lifts his hips, allowing Castiel to tug his pants down mid-thigh. Taking it in hand, Castiel admires it for probably too long, all hard, blood-warmed skin that he can’t help but touch. Feigning curiosity, he touches his fingers to the tip, gathering up the precome spilling over and slicking his grip with it; he strokes Dean leisurely, like he’s done to himself a few times just because he could, and watches Dean chase him.

Gentle fingers roam through Castiel’s hair, tugging ever so slightly. “You don’t gotta,” Dean says, but Castiel shakes his head. “You ever… done this before?”

“I’ve watched humans for longer than I care to think about,” Castiel says, then drags his tongue up the shaft from ball to tip. Dean convulses, head thrown back and mouth caught around a stifled moan. “I think I can navigate my way around your cock.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean breathes, hysteric. “Fine, then—just don’t use your teeth. Not exactly sexy.”

Castiel takes that into consideration for a brief second. Just long enough to gather his resolve and kiss the head, capturing precome behind his lips. Parting his legs, Dean beckons Castiel forward, and Castiel follows through, taking Dean’s cock into his mouth. Just the tip at first, working his tongue up the underside. Dean jerks, twitching in Castiel’s mouth; precome spills onto Castiel’s tongue, thick and flavorless, not what Castiel was expecting.

For the first few minutes, Dean watches him as he bobs his head. Shallow, with the rest of his shaft in Castiel’s fist as Castiel works him over. He’s not nearly as thick as Castiel, but he’s long in a way that leaves him slightly envious; not enough for him to choke on it, but Castiel wonders what it might be like if Dean bent him over the couch and had his way with him. Arousal spirals through his gut at the thought, drawing a moan from Castiel’s lungs.

“Yeah,” Dean groans, tilting his head back. His grip on Castiel’s hair tightens, his hand trembling. “Yeah, like that, c’mon.”

For what skill Castiel lacks, he makes up in enthusiasm. The more he involves his tongue, the harder Dean tugs on his hair. At some point, he sneaks his free hand up and into Dean’s shirt, tweaking a nipple, and Dean bites his lip to keep from howling. Any noise, and someone will come running, and Castiel doesn’t intend to explain just how he ended up here. In his slacks, his cock throbs, and rutting against the couch cushions only alleviates the fire momentarily.

Dean notices, though, and lets out a stifled whine. “ _Fuck_ ,” he wheezes. Castiel feels Dean’s cock thicken, feels his hips chase the warmth of Castiel’s tongue. “ _Fuck_ , wanna—not in your mouth, Cas—”

But that’s what Castiel wants—and what he intends to take. Hastening his pace, Castiel grips Dean’s hip for leverage, allowing Dean to thrust up and in, just to get that bit deeper. Dean tries to pull him off with a frantic tug; Castiel refuses, and his Grace thrills when Dean stutters, breath caught. He spills with a strangled moan, and Castiel gathers his come onto his tongue, swallowing it without hesitation. Bitter, with an overt tang of salt; maybe Sam is right, maybe Dean does need to lay off the processed foods.

Castiel strokes Dean’s thighs as he comes down, Dean’s softening cock still in his mouth; biting his lip, Dean pets Castiel’s hair, and Castiel spots the tears in his eyes. Not from sadness, but elation, the force of which Castiel can feel just by being close to him. “Not supposed to swallow,” Dean mumbles, despite the smile on his face.

Pulling off, Castiel crawls over Dean and kisses him, only to feel Dean chase the remnants of come in his mouth like a man dying of thirst. “You like it,” Castiel says. And to his shock, Dean nods.

“Should return the favor,” Dean says, but Castiel shakes his head. Another night, when they aren’t both exhausted and Dean doesn't look halfway to passing out. A sluggish hand slips around Castiel’s waist, resting over the small of his back. “Think we missed the end of the movie.”

They did, but Castiel doesn’t care. “We can try again,” he promises.

Dean smirks at him, a spark in his eye—maybe this one, they’ll never finish.


	6. Communion

Sex, Castiel knows from a practicality standpoint. Knows just how to angle his hips, knows how much pressure to apply when need be, and knows how hard to thrust as he chases release. But lying on his back with Dean towering over him, he may as well have forgotten the playbook, because this—this is even better than he imagined. Better than he’s ever felt in a long, long time.

Because Dean is with him. Dean touches him with ardor and kisses him with purpose, and fucks him slow, methodical, barely even cognizant of his own pleasure. All of which, he pours into Castiel, from the kisses he peppers into the curve of his neck to the hand that occasionally fists his cock to the point of release, only to let go at the last second. Every time, Castiel groans and bites his hand, and Dean laughs, like his life’s mission is to torment Castiel until he dies.

But what a way to go.

After a third round of Dean’s incessant torture, Castiel tears at the motel bedspread, nails digging into the cheap fabric. “Please,” he pants, eyes pinched shut. Sweat drips from his temple, seeping into his hairline; oversensitive, his cock leaks onto his stomach, throbbing with the need for release. Said release, Dean refuses to provide. “Please, Dean…”

How Dean has lasted this long, Castiel doesn’t know. Thankfully, though, his stamina appears to be at its limit; hands to the back of Castiel’s knees, Dean hoists his legs up and over his shoulders, all the leverage he needs. “This time,” Dean says, winded, rocking his hips in, in, _in_. “This time, for me, c’mon, baby—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel groans.

Reaching out, he grabs ahold of Dean’s knee, taking a scant few seconds to watch him. Really watch him, Dean’s torso slick with sweat, flushed red down to his navel. His lips shine from repeated kisses and bites, and his hair sticks up at odd angles, other portions matted to his head. He really is beautiful, especially here, with his soul pouring free and body scalding against his own.

He shouldn’t, but Castiel lets his Grace loose anyway, spilling into Dean while Dean’s soul latches onto him with such force that Dean can feel the connection. “Cas,” he moans and drops Castiel’s legs to the bedspread, then crowds him, elbows to either side of Castiel’s head. Clawing at Dean’s back, Castiel kisses him, and Dean gives back just as good, pace breakneck, his breaths short, shallow pants. “Cas, feel it—”

“Feel me,” Castiel moans. Face buried in Dean’s neck, he pours his Grace into Dean, all at once, untethered—and Dean comes, the ecstasy of his release spiraling through his soul. The two converge, coiled within one another, so bright and enrapturing that Castiel forgets to breathe. In that one moment, he ceases to exist, his only feeling the euphoria that courses through him, from both release and Deal’s soul reverberating, echoing through his core.

Dean collapses onto him in the wake—actually collapses, his weight near-crushing while he pants into Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel still clings to him, sucking in air until the aftershocks ease and he regains control of his lungs. Between them, Castiel’s come slicks both of their stomachs, and Dean’s trickles from his rim; the intimacy of it doesn’t escape him, knowing that Dean marked him, gave him something no other human could ever give.

“You’re in love with me,” Castiel says, and against him, Dean stiffens. “I felt it in your soul. You called out to me, you clung to me—”

“Okay, okay.” Gradually, Dean relaxes, and a laugh bubbles up from his chest. He flops onto his back, tucking an arm under Castiel’s head. “Hey, I’m not the one that Grace-fucked me when I came.”

Castiel laughs—actually laughs, the sudden force of it alarming. And Dean joins in, sneaking in a kiss to Castiel’s temple. “But you are,” he concedes, turning his head to face Dean. Tears prickle the corner of his eyes; Castiel wipes them away, feeling Dean lean into him afterward. “Dean, I… I know.”

Nodding, Dean closes his eyes. “Felt you too. Like… someone turned on a light, and I couldn't look away. Is that…” He stops and chews his lip. “I felt that, when you… When you grabbed me in Hell, I felt… warm. Like all the pain stopped, and I could breathe again. Was that…”

“It’s me.” Turning onto his side, Castiel draws Dean up against him, dovetailing their legs. He places a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, and Dean mirrors him, fingers teasing the slits where his wings reside. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“Yeah.” Shy, Dean tucks his head under Castiel’s chin. “Never said anything, ‘cause I didn’t… Never thought you were interested.”

Rather than reply, Castiel eases his way into a kiss; Dean’s fingers curl into a fist against his spine, a moan sitting low in his chest. “Years,” Castiel says, “I’ve wanted you for years, Dean.”

Dean hums, eyes half-lidded. “Guess we’ve been missing out,” he says with a grin. “You love me?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. Never in his life has he been more sure of anything—he loves Dean, every part of him, even what Dean himself despises. Stroking through Dean’s hair, he pushes the wet strands out of his face. “I’ll never stop.”

“Good.” With a nod, Dean curls further into Castiel’s space; he relaxes, his sigh a warm brand against Castiel’s chest. “Me too.”

Relief rushes through Castiel, his heart skipping. Dean loves him— _Dean loves me_. Across town, witnesses are waiting for them to knock at their door and a monster roams in the woods, waiting for nightfall. But the rest of the world can wait, because this moment, with Dean warm and loving and willing to be loved against him, Castiel would rather stay here than face the day.

Because Dean loves him—and finally, Castiel is whole. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Ana mentioned something to me the other day and my brain ran with it, so here's some 1k snippets of Cas and Dean experiencing the five senses, including one not-so-human sense! Enjoy! Also I'm not ready for the finale!!
> 
> Title is from the Phil Collins song, "Thunder and Lightning".
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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